Chapter 8: The bad idea

“Well, Agent Scott, let me answer your first question first.” He smiled. If he kept up the charisma, she might never guess what he really was. “I knew you were FBI because you said you were on duty and I know you’re not a cop. You’re still wearing your Harvard law ring, which means you haven’t been out of school long enough to stop wearing it.”

The drinks arrived at the table with a smile from the waitress. David took a sip while Jessica added sugar to hers.

“With a law degree, the only job you could have where drinking on duty would be an issue is FBI. That, and the fact that you aren’t carrying a weapon tells me that you aren’t a field agent.” He smiled and pointed at her hands. “Besides,” he said, “you don’t have the hands for it.”

“The hands for it?” She looked down at her hands. “I think I have very nice hands.”

David smiled. “You do have nice hands,” he assured her. “But you don’t have the hands to be a field agent.”

“What kind of hands does a field agent need?” She asked. She had a skeptical look on her face.

“Someone who fires a gun frequently develops a minor callus, usually more of a burn from gunpowder, right here,” he displayed his hand and rubbed the skin between the thumb and first finger of the hand. “You have beautiful hands, Jessica, and they are distinctly lacking that very callus.” He didn’t mention that wearing gloves when you use a gun would prevent the callous from forming. He didn’t want her suspecting him of anything.

She put her glass down and looked at him. “You are incredible. What do you do? Are you CIA or something?”

Jessica stirred her drink with a spoon. David tried to pretend his iced tea was from Long Island. He gulped down about a shot’s worth of it through the straw. Then he pulled the straw out and set it on the table, so he could drink right out of the glass.

He turned back to Jessica. “That would be one hell of a coincidence, wouldn’t it, Jessica?” He wondered if maybe he should tell her he was CIA. It might make things easier if she looked for him and found his identity as Michael Crane was somewhat on the flimsy side.

“Yes, it would. Unless you were looking for me specifically.” She grinned. So much for that idea. She’d check with someone in the CIA if he told her that was where he worked.

David took another sip of his iced tea. Maybe he could deflect her. Everyone likes talking about his or herself. Besides, he loved the sound of her voice. “What do you do in the FBI Jessica?”

“I’m a researcher.” He gave her a look to show he didn’t know what that meant. Her eyes lit up. “You know all those things that can get you flagged as a terrorist by the FBI? Well, I check the statistics to determine that kind of thing. I also cross check sales of various items to the flagged people, making sure none of them are making bombs in their basements or anything like that.”

It sounded like one of the most boring jobs in the entire world. But she didn’t seem to think so. And David didn’t want her to think that he thought that. Best to pretend interest, even if all that really interested him was listening to her talk. “So you basically do preliminary anti-terrorism?”

She seemed to like the sound of that. “Most of the time, yes. It’s kind of boring, actually.” She shrugged. “But I’m new to the bureau.”

“Not like Bronxville, huh?” He took another sip, looking at her over the glass.

She gave him a look. A long, lingering look of utter disbelief. “Okay, Michael Crane, now you’re scaring me. How the heck did you know that?”

She was getting suspicious. David worried he might have crossed the line. He had to back off, calm down, let himself go. He had to get out of his hyper vigilance observation mode. “Lucky guess.” He offered.

“Bull.” She crossed her arms and glared at him. There was something in her look that was more than just astonishment. “How could you have possibly guessed that? I mean, to know what town I grew up in?”

David shrugged. Might as well tell her the truth. “I could tell by your accent.” He said. “I knew you were from nearby to the city, but that you didn’t grow up here. You do live here now, so I can only assume that you spent a lot of time here as a child, but not enough to know that you shouldn’t live here.” She chuckled. He let himself grin. “That tells me that you grew up within half an hour of the city. Bronxville was just a lucky guess.” Well, it wasn’t entirely the truth. There hadn’t been any kind of guess. Bronxville accents are a bit specific. At least, they were to David. But he’d spent a bit of time there, enough to recognize the accent.

“That is amazing.” She relaxed a bit.

“Hey, don’t get too impressed.” He hoped his charm would calm her down more. “It’s my only trick, and I need it to stretch out for a while.”

“Is that so Mr. Crane?” She asked, giving him a devilish grin, her eyes flashing invitation. “Do you expect to have a need to impress me for a long time?”

He shrugged. “Long enough, I hope.”

“For what?” There was a twinkle in her eye, one that reminded him of how McKenzie had looked at him all those years ago.

“Good question.” He took another sip from his drink, gave her a smirk.

She had a look on her face like she hadn’t expected to go as far as they already had, and like she was willing to go further. It shocked her. She wasn’t that spontaneous. David reminded himself that he was supposed to be acting the same way.

After a few minutes of silence, minutes she spent looking at him and he spent thinking about the painting and the museum around it, she spoke again. “I want to try.” She said. “You actually did grow up in the city, but you left it to go to school. Now you live elsewhere, but you’ve come here for a while, probably for business. You can read people like a book, so I’ll bet you’re great at poker. Are you a lawyer, Michael?”

David thought for a moment. He knew quite a bit about law. In his profession, it was helpful to know just what laws you were breaking and what the penalties were. With most people, he could easily fake being a lawyer. Certainly, he had broken enough laws to be able to talk about criminal behavior.

It was too dangerous to fake it with her, though. She had graduated from Harvard Law. She knew law to the point that only a lawyer would know. Being in the FBI meant she was a particularly good student. It would be too challenging to be a lawyer for her. And if he slipped up, she’d know it. Besides, she could look him up with contacts in the law field, and discover that he didn’t exist.

Which would just make her suspicious, and start her checking even deeper. Maybe even alerting the bureau.

He really shouldn’t have been talking to her at all. Every word he said to her put the job at greater and greater risk. What if she was somehow called in as a witness? Already she could give them a hint, tell them about Michael Crane, the very enigmatic and extremely perceptive man from out of town she’d met just a few days before the crime. She was probably a regular at the museum. She’d know that he hadn’t been there before. And she’d know he wasn’t there again. It wasn’t much. But it was enough.

And yet, he didn’t want to stop talking to her. As stupid as he knew it was, he just couldn’t help taking the risk. “No, I’m not a lawyer.” He said.

“What do you do?”