Life's a Dance

Life's a dance you learn as you go
Sometimes you lead, sometimes you follow,
Don't worry about what you don't know
Because life's a dance you learn as you go

 

“Langham's money ...” Buffy hesitated as if gauging how much she should say. “That was me. But I didn't have a choice. Part of infiltrating a terrorist organization means acting like a terrorist. It's not like I was in any position to refuse. You should understand that.”

Trixie didn't respond immediately; she was digesting what Buffy had told her. She understood having to do things you don't agree with it, but her role working undercover didn't carry the same risks that Buffy dealt with every day. Finally, she nodded, indicating they had arrived at an uneasy truce. Neither wanted to fully trust the other, but both realized they had little choice. Time was ticking by, and the need to find the missing technology was great. If IRMA beat us to it....

“Understood, but you said Langham doesn't have it. If Torch doesn't have it either, then Kingston has to have it,” Trixie said. “It's the only place I haven't looked.”

“Kingston sure as hell didn’t have it five years ago; you can trust me on that.” Buffy replied. “Are you sure it wasn't at B3?”

Trixie stared in surprise. “You've been at this that long?”

The odd look crossed Buffy's face and she spoke quietly. “I've been at this longer than that. Trust me, it hasn't been easy.”

Trixie snorted. “You're telling me! How did you ... I mean your Dad, does he know?”

Buffy shook her head in regret. “No, although a part of me wishes he did. He thinks I'm flighty, fickle, and completely unmanageable. Once he finds out that I'm not going to marry Jared Somer ...”

“Whoa! Wait just a minute!” Trixie held up her hand. “What do you mean you're not going to marry Jared? Isn't he the ticket you used to get deep inside IRMA?”

Buffy looked down at her fingernails and remained quiet for a long minute. Finally, she looked up. “He left me.”

“That's it?” Trixie jumped to her feet, aghast at Buffy's defeatist attitude. “Aren’t you going after him? I mean, you have to fight to win him back. You just have to. Come on, Buffy! You can't just give up.”

Her partner in espionage winced at those words. Tossing her hair back, she glared at Trixie. “Look, if we're going to get anything straight between us you're going to have accept a few things. First and foremost: Do. Not. Call. Me. Buffy! I hate that stupid name. At least Mike called me Liza, but I'd prefer Beth. My Dad calls me Beth. If you can't handle Beth, then call me Patterson.”

There was no need to explain name preferences twice. Trixie nodded and gestured for her to continue.

“Second, I'm not going to get him back. It's not possible.” She held up a hand to halt Trixie's interruptions. “Give it up, Belden. It's not going to happen. There’s nothing I can do to change that.”

The mutual glare between them solidified into a stare-down until Trixie glanced at her watch and realized that the longer they stayed on the boat, discovery became a real risk, especially with no feasible explanation for why they were together. “Fine, it’s not going to happen. I get it, but there's still the issue of the laptop.” She pointed toward the sleek unit sitting on the built-in desk.

“I'm the senior agent on this case,” Beth Patterson declared. “It's critical to me that I get the laptop. I can't tell you why or what I need, only that I need it.”

“Is it the financial records?” Trixie asked.

Beth shook her head. “No. In fact ...” she trailed off as a thought occurred to her. “Look, if it's the financials you want, make a copy of those files. Heck, you can even delete them if you want. You can take all the financial records. That's not what I need or want.”

“Fair enough,” Trixie dug into her purse and pulled out a flash drive. “I've got this. Let's get it done and get out of here.”

 

 

“We need to talk.”

Mike started at her statement. The last think he'd expected during a routine trip to the men's room was to encounter a woman accosting him. Not to mention that her statement was a phrase that would always strike fear into the heart of most men. Even though Mitsy Thornhill was not his girlfriend or in any way a love interest, the statement still had the power to rattle him.

“Talk?” he echoed shakily. “About what?”

She shook her head and looked around. “About your business and we can’t talk here, not at the office. How do you feel about dinner tomorrow night?”

“Dinner?”

“After dinner, breakfast tomorrow morning, lunch, I don't care when, where or how, but we need to talk and it can't be here.”

Somehow, it penetrated that she wanted to talk business to him about his business, Kingston Technology. He hadn't talked about the business since his father died. “My mother usually handles —”

“I know. That's why I need to talk to you.”

The look in her eyes told him everything he needed to know. He pushed an anxious hand over his thinning hair. As luck would have it, he figured he’d be practically bald before he was forty, a trait he didn't inherit from his own father. Although his Dad had been completely gray by the time he was forty, his hair was as thick as that of a teenager.

“Dinner's fine,” he stated. “Just let me know when and where.”

“Seven o'clock tonight at Vespucci's.” She frowned and her eyes narrowed. “Mike, I'm serious. You need to be there.”

He nodded. “Don't worry; I'm not going to bail.”

She turned and left, the clicking sound of her high heels echoing down the uncarpeted hallway outside the men’s room. He looked around the opulent restroom, now empty save for himself. What had possessed her to corner him here?

 

 

Ben Riker sat at the bar nursing his expensive scotch. Obviously, he’d screwed things up royally. He'd never be able to explain away his behavior, and the truth would only dig him a deeper hole. No matter how he played things from here, he was going to end up the loser.

Women! He sighed. That's when it all went south for him. The moment he'd let himself be persuaded by that crazy female he knew he'd sold his soul. And for what? he asked himself, rattling the ice cubes in his glass. Realizing the glass was empty, he waved it at the bartender to signal for another round.

Certainly not fame, he decided after the bartender nodded to indicate he received the message. Notoriety had never tempted him. The desire for prominence motivated both his parents, but he'd managed to escape that particular yearning. It wasn't money either. He had plenty of money. The firm deposited a healthy paycheck into his account every month. Combined with the income from his trust, the annual allowance his father and other family members gifted him to avoid taxes, he managed to live well. He had everything he wanted. That's not true, he chided himself. He wanted more. He wanted someone who would care if he would be home late from the office. Someone he could confide in when Andrea Newman had been particularly unreasonable in her demands that he accompany yet another nitwit to some stupid social function. Someone who loved him like his Aunt Grace loved his Uncle Matthew. He wanted to share his life with someone.

He'd hoped that Trixie would be that something more, but it had been clear to him from the beginning that she still had a connection to his cousin. There were other women. He'd dated his fair share of them and bedded a few, but that was lust, not love. Even the woman he was currently seeing lacked that special spark. So how had he put himself into this situation if he was looking for love?

It had to be the excitement. The first time he’d finished a job she’d asked him to carry out, he’d felt a rush of adrenaline that satisfied something deep inside. He knew the consequences if he'd been caught, but he hadn't been caught. Once he proved himself, he received more assignments, each one increasing in difficulty. Those projects were even more of a rush, and he'd completed one right under the noses of federal agents. He’d never been caught… until now. It was only a matter of time. Honey would talk to Trixie, and it wouldn't take Trixie more than a week to figure out he wasn't who she thought he was. He hoped his girlfriend would have some advice for him.

The chime of his phone interrupted his drinking. He picked it up, his stomach dropping as he imagined the managing partner trying to contact him, but it was her. Relieved, he texted her with his current location and asked her to join him.

There was an immediate reply. “Turn around.”

Looking around, he saw her standing there, a seductive smile on her face. “Hello, Benjamin,” she purred. “What's the matter? Did you have a rough day?”

“You know I did,” he growled. “How'd you know I was here?”

She shrugged. “It's where you always go,” she explained. “Where else would you be if you weren't at work?” She slid onto the barstool next to him.

He glanced down to see if he could get a glimpse of those long, luscious legs. Maybe those legs are to blame. As she crossed her legs and turned toward him, he appreciated her shapely, toned limbs. He imagined himself in court. That's right, your Honor. It wasn't my fault. It was her legs. He shook his head. That would never fly as a defense. The world would view him as just another young, rich playboy—when the chips were down, he couldn't keep his pants zipped.

“Buy you a drink?” he asked.

Shaking her head, she got down to business. “What's wrong?”

“Honey found out that I deliberately let Trixie know she wants to sell her share of the business,” he said miserably. “She's going to find a new attorney; she’s asking her Dad to move the family business, basically telling everyone she knows. Hell, some of those accounts represent hundreds of thousands of dollars of retainer fees for the firm. When they find out ...” his voice trailed off.

“Who the hell are Honey and Trixie?”

He grimaced. The hole he'd dug for himself was getting deeper. “I mean Madeleine Wheeler and Beatrix Belden. Those are just some family nicknames for them.”

“Why on earth are you worried about them, Benjamin? In the overall scheme of things, they don't matter. We've talked about this.”

“Yeah, but...”

Her hand reached out and grabbed his. “Benjamin?” She waited until he looked her in the eye. “Are you with me or not?”

He no longer had a real choice. “Yeah, I'm with you,” he mumbled.

“Great!” She slid off the bar stool and stood next to him, brushing her lips across his cheek. “Then we're still on for Saturday night, right?”

“You know we are. What time should I pick you up?”

She tilted her head and searched his expression. He seemed okay. “How about I pick you up? I promised to take care of some things for Grace Wheeler and it would be easier all the way around if I came to you.”

“Sounds like a plan.” He picked up his Scotch and drained the glass. Banging it down onto the bar, he pulled out some bills and left them next to the empty glass to cover his bill. “Come on, I'll walk you home.”

 

 

Trixie pushed the flash drive into the laptop’s USB port and perused the files on Langham's laptop. Several clicks later, she located the files she needed and highlighted them for copying. “Do you want me to cut and paste or just copy?” she asked.

Silence.

“Beth?” She looked over her shoulder to see Buffy staring at the screen. She was staring at Trixie, her face a picture of consternation.

“Where did you get those files?” she asked, pointing to the window that had opened automatically when Trixie inserted the external USB drive.

Trixie turned back to see the files in question. “Those are the files that Jim and Mike were working on for the presentation at the fundraiser on Saturday. Why?”

“Orchid dot e-x-e is for Jim's fundraiser?” Beth’s amazement was plain.

“What!?”

As Trixie gazed at her laptop’s display, it sank in. A file named ORCHID.exe. It was right in front of her. She couldn't stop herself and double-clicked the file. As the program opened and started to install, it was obvious. This was it: the mission, the goal, the reason for Allison's murder, Langham's shooting, all of it. She didn't need to look for the high-tech, leading-edge random code encryption software. She had it on her own personal thumb drive.