ranged in age from eleven to sixteen.
Seasoned agents though they were, both Mathew and Steve had trouble seeing
those kids already hardened into a life of drugs and sex. They could go
from innocent and fearful to cocky and aggressive, or to withdrawn and silent as if all they could do was play a role. That made a sort of
sick sense, since the pimp was a failed movie director and some of the adult
women working for him had once aspired to careers in Hollywood.
Mathew was combing through the pimp’s
texts and emails, hitting some that were encrypted and likely in one or more
foreign languages. Steve estimated how much work they had yet to do and
decided to leave on Friday. How he went back east would be determined by
the phone call he was about to make to Ivy Littleton. When he talked with
her early the week before at work, she had been, if not encouraging, at least
not hostile. Early this week he called her again ostensibly to find out
what other banks they might have data on, although he had no intention of using
it. On the second call they talked about the case for a short time, then
he asked about what she was doing at work and what Portland was like in the
fall. While she was a little distant with him, he was encouraged enough
to ask her to dinner Friday night.
Steve selected her work phone even
though it was after seven on Thursday evening. The call went to voice
mail. He dialed her home phone. She picked up after three rings.
“Ivy Vine? Steve Nielsen here.”
“Steve? Are you calling to
terrorize me into giving you more data?” she said, but she laughed after asking
the question.
“No, I’m down in L.A.”
“You do get around, don’t you?”
“Uh, yeah. Same case. Say, I
could be in Portland late tomorrow afternoon and wondered if you would have
dinner with me.”
Ivy was silent. Steve waited for
her to respond. Was she thinking up a reason to say no? Did she
have another date? Was she in a relationship?
“Steve, I don’t like to cross the line
between business and personal lives.”
“Understand. As far as I’m
concerned, any future dealings with your company will be through your attorney
at Corporate.” He paused to let that sink in, then said, “Look Ivy, I was
a real jerk with you at times. It is my way to get what is needed for a case
as quickly as possible. That is what I do, not who I am. Hopefully
there were also times when you saw that I could be a reasonable guy.”
“Maybe so. Still in all, you
seem to bring out the worst in me.”
“Ivy, give me a chance. Won’t
you give me one dinner to prove myself?”
Ivy was silent again. In the
background, he could hear classical music playing. He waited. He
could be good at waiting when he thought it would advance his cause. He
watched the minute change on his laptop clock.
“Seven. At a restaurant called
Urban Farmer upstairs in the Nines Hotel. I will meet you there.”
“I’ll make a reservation.”
“I’ll be the woman sipping a Manhattan
at the bar wondering why she is crazy enough to be there.”
“Correction. You will be the
lovely tall woman with the amazing hair wondering . . . “
“See you tomorrow,” she said in a
voice that sounded a little warmer than it had before.
“Goodbye, Ivy.”
Steve clicked off his phone. If
the ceilings were higher, he might have jumped up in the air to release the
tension from fearing he would be turned down. Tomorrow at 7. He
opened the browser on his laptop to book the restaurant. He would take a
commercial flight to Portland on his own nickel. Mathew could wrap things
up here tomorrow, take the Bubird up to meet him in Portland early Saturday,
pick him up and they would then fly back to D.C. together while Mathew briefed
him on new findings.
He stopped for a moment,
reconsidering. Was he ready for the emotional ups and downs of getting to
know someone? Did he have time? Was the mercurial Ivy a
Seasoned agents though they were, both Mathew and Steve had trouble seeing
those kids already hardened into a life of drugs and sex. They could go
from innocent and fearful to cocky and aggressive, or to withdrawn and silent as if all they could do was play a role. That made a sort of
sick sense, since the pimp was a failed movie director and some of the adult
women working for him had once aspired to careers in Hollywood.
Mathew was combing through the pimp’s
texts and emails, hitting some that were encrypted and likely in one or more
foreign languages. Steve estimated how much work they had yet to do and
decided to leave on Friday. How he went back east would be determined by
the phone call he was about to make to Ivy Littleton. When he talked with
her early the week before at work, she had been, if not encouraging, at least
not hostile. Early this week he called her again ostensibly to find out
what other banks they might have data on, although he had no intention of using
it. On the second call they talked about the case for a short time, then
he asked about what she was doing at work and what Portland was like in the
fall. While she was a little distant with him, he was encouraged enough
to ask her to dinner Friday night.
Steve selected her work phone even
though it was after seven on Thursday evening. The call went to voice
mail. He dialed her home phone. She picked up after three rings.
“Ivy Vine? Steve Nielsen here.”
“Steve? Are you calling to
terrorize me into giving you more data?” she said, but she laughed after asking
the question.
“No, I’m down in L.A.”
“You do get around, don’t you?”
“Uh, yeah. Same case. Say, I
could be in Portland late tomorrow afternoon and wondered if you would have
dinner with me.”
Ivy was silent. Steve waited for
her to respond. Was she thinking up a reason to say no? Did she
have another date? Was she in a relationship?
“Steve, I don’t like to cross the line
between business and personal lives.”
“Understand. As far as I’m
concerned, any future dealings with your company will be through your attorney
at Corporate.” He paused to let that sink in, then said, “Look Ivy, I was
a real jerk with you at times. It is my way to get what is needed for a case
as quickly as possible. That is what I do, not who I am. Hopefully
there were also times when you saw that I could be a reasonable guy.”
“Maybe so. Still in all, you
seem to bring out the worst in me.”
“Ivy, give me a chance. Won’t
you give me one dinner to prove myself?”
Ivy was silent again. In the
background, he could hear classical music playing. He waited. He
could be good at waiting when he thought it would advance his cause. He
watched the minute change on his laptop clock.
“Seven. At a restaurant called
Urban Farmer upstairs in the Nines Hotel. I will meet you there.”
“I’ll make a reservation.”
“I’ll be the woman sipping a Manhattan
at the bar wondering why she is crazy enough to be there.”
“Correction. You will be the
lovely tall woman with the amazing hair wondering . . . “
“See you tomorrow,” she said in a
voice that sounded a little warmer than it had before.
“Goodbye, Ivy.”
Steve clicked off his phone. If
the ceilings were higher, he might have jumped up in the air to release the
tension from fearing he would be turned down. Tomorrow at 7. He
opened the browser on his laptop to book the restaurant. He would take a
commercial flight to Portland on his own nickel. Mathew could wrap things
up here tomorrow, take the Bubird up to meet him in Portland early Saturday,
pick him up and they would then fly back to D.C. together while Mathew briefed
him on new findings.
He stopped for a moment,
reconsidering. Was he ready for the emotional ups and downs of getting to
know someone? Did he have time? Was the mercurial Ivy a
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