Free The Enemy Inside by Steve Martini Page A

duty.
    “The camera toggled on and off with one key on my keyboard. Anybody came by I just turned it off and the little box on my screen disappeared. I removed the camera the minute I found out she was dead.”
    “Did this camera have a tape?”
    “I couldn’t afford it,” said Preebles. “Those get really expensive.”
    “I can imagine. Let me ask you a question. Do you know how to get into all the little hidden places in that desk?”
    She propped herself up on one arm. “I think I could remember. I know I could if I was your personal assistant in the Washington office. You need my eyes and ears. You know you do.” She plucked one of the large strawberries from the platter and dragged it lasciviously across her nipple, breaking into a smile and then giggling a little as she did it.
    He could have the desk dragged out to a medical office somewhere and have it x-rayed if he had to. And then take a chainsaw to it. He made a mental note to get a safe with double locks installed in his D.C. office and have it swept for bugs hourly before he allowed Preebles anywhere near the place.

NINE
    H erman called me. He found the place. The gentlemen’s club is in a building in a commercial area a few blocks in from the pier at Ocean Beach, what is left of the amusements from the old boardwalk era.
    As I cruise slowly down the main drag, its denizens are T-shirt shops and souvenir stands. An antique cotton candy machine on wheels sits forlornly chained to the side of a building in front of a taffy shop. Late afternoon, middle of the week, most of the tourist haunts are closed.
    The only place showing signs of life is a microbrewery doing a brisk business, people grabbing a cold one on the way home from work. All the storefront little businesses are neatly painted, mostly pastel colors, some of them with sparkling awnings out front. What you would think of as an upscale California beach community. I know the area. There are million-dollar homes just a few blocks away.
    To the naked eye the gentlemen’s club is invisible. According to what Herman told me on the phone it lurks in a back alley under a sign posing as D ARKSTONE’S B AR AND G RILL with an arrow pointing up a flight of stairs.
    I pull into one of the diagonal parking spaces out on the street. I’m driving my old Jeep, a 1980s vintage Wrangler that I’ve stored for years. I use it for work from time to time just to keep the engine alive. I’ve had it since before Sarah was born. I retain it for sentiment as much as anything else. A time machine for going back to the past whenever I’m behind the wheel, if only for a brief illusion.
    Home is not the same anymore. Joselyn and I have been living together for more than a year. She has been away on a project in Europe for two months now, her job with the Gideon Quest Foundation. During a recent excursion up north, she suffered a traumatic incident; I nearly lost her. She fell under the influence of a man who was suffering from mental war wounds and who very nearly took her life. She is recovering, but we are still working to restore our relationship. It was difficult for me to see her go, but it was necessary to give her some space as part of the process of recovery. I’m looking forward to her getting back. Joss, like me, is also a lawyer, but one who left her practice to do good works—in this case as director of a foundation dedicated to the nonproliferation of weapons of mass destruction. After my being alone for years, my wife deceased, the Fates brought Joss and me together while the tensions of a world gone crazy seem to keep us apart. I am missing her and wishing she were here. We keep in touch on Skype.
    Sarah is gone, no longer living near me, now on her own up in Los Angeles. She has a new job, a career, and friends. I see her only occasionally on weekends. She is busy with her own life, getting on, and getting away. She’s had enough of my law practice and the problems that it caused in our lives. I