In the Company of Liars Read Free Page B

miss his flight.”
    â€œYeah, I’d hate to see that happen.”
    McCoy pivots and stands in front of Storino. She jams a finger into his chest. “You definitely would hate to see that happen, Agent Storino. Are we clear?”
    Storino looks hard at McCoy, then at her partner. Slowly, a smile creeps along his face. “Always nice to see you all from the Bureau,” he says.
    â€œPleasure’s been all mine.” McCoy turns and walks down the hallway. “Prick,” she mumbles out of earshot. “I don’t have enough shit to deal with?”
    â€œJaney, the mouth.” Harrick chuckles.
    The agents leave the airport and begin their trip back to the federal building downtown, where the Special Agent in Charge is eagerly awaiting a report. Jane closes her eyes a moment as the escort drives them back to their car. She has seen death and tried hard to deny responsibility. It does no good to grieve excessively. You mourn the dead but keep fighting to prevent more death. That is what she has been doing, what has propelled her forward. And her job—this op—is not yet done, but it is close. Very close. She’ll sleep well tonight for the first time in months. She’ll make up for all those nights in May when she paced her small bedroom, thinking everything through, worrying about the number of hurdles that could have clipped her foot.
    Does Mr. Ramadaran Ali Haroon have any idea what is about to happen?
    Today is the first day of June, the unofficial beginning of summer. It was a hectic February, a chaotic March, an incredibly tense April. And May, the month that just ended, was possibly the hardest thirty-one days of her life.
    But it’s almost over. They will make their arrests soon, and her part in this operation will be completed. She can’tworry about things she can’t control. She can only do her part.
    Sam Dillon’s death started it. Allison Pagone’s death ended it.
    She shakes her head in resignation, still unable to believe how this began.

SIXTEEN DAYS EARLIER
SUNDAY, MAY 16
    T he crowd is small, which is surprising in a way. The family wanted a small service; it is a tribute to their planning that only two reporters managed to figure out the time and place. The family’s success in eluding the media is probably due to their decision to forgo a church service. The media probably had its eye on the church Allison Pagone had attended her entire life. They would have no way of knowing which cemetery had been chosen for her burial.
    It’s a nice place. Three acres of beautiful land, manicured lawn, well-kept plots. A new two-story granite mausoleum is secluded in a shady area to the northwest. A nicer place than Jane McCoy expects to end up in when her ticket is punched, on her government salary.
    From her position in the driver’s seat of the limousine, McCoy looks through the one-way tinted windows at her surroundings. First, for the exits. Technically, there is onlyone. A road that leads from the main gate, snakes through the cemetery, and leads back out.
    It’s a beautiful day for a service, if there is such a thing, owing primarily to the sun. One of those days when it’s hard to keep your eyes open. You won’t hear complaints anywhere across the city, though, after the permanent gray sky that prevailed from January through April. With the blinding rays and the temperature close to sixty, people are dressed optimistically, praying that today is a harbinger and not a tease.
    It reminds McCoy of the first time she approached her mother’s grave after her memorial service. She was thirteen then, hardly able to comprehend the loss, offended at the strong sunlight cast over the headstone, as if someone, somewhere, were trying to make the world beautiful on a day that was anything but.
    The limousine is parked on the narrow road only about ten yards from the service. Jane McCoy cracks her window and listens to the