A Gift for Perseverance
Wednesday, 26 Aug 2009
Off 79th and Amsterdam
Manhattan, NY
1648hrs, local time
Irina DiSanti worked on her case notes until the laptop screen made her eyes water. The past week had been hot with the temps in the high 80s and the humidity was merciless, making the sidewalks sweltering and moving about the city hellish. It didn't help Irina's general mood one bit and by Wednesday even she was ready to acknowledge that right now, life was a bitch and so was she. She glanced at her closed bedroom door with a twinge of remorse, knowing she'd been unforgivably terse with her parents..
They agreed to take you back in, DiSanti, but they extended that offer to their daughter, not some rabid badger with a fuckin' migraine.
Speaking of which...
She closed her eyes and rubbed them one-handed. She would have to stop soon. She could feel a migraine coming on. None of the docs she'd seen over the past three years could give her anything conclusive as to their cause. All they could offer her was palliative care when they struck. Oh, and the not-so-veiled insinuations it's all in my head and there's really nothing wrong with me. Moisture laden air and the rumble of thunder drifted in from her open window and for a second the dank scent off the streets took her all the way back to the basement.
...Freezing cold and burning up from fever ... her ribs grinding in her chest as she tried to dodge the fist coming for her ... the shock of bone breaking at the back of her head ... blessed blackness taking everything away...
"Morbid bitch." Irina rose and hit save on her way out. She grabbed her cap off the hook beside the front door and called to the general direction of the kitchen. "Going to Mikey's. You need anything, Mom?"
"Yes," Nadia Rudiakova DiSanti stuck her head into the living room, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. "I called your father, but he would just forget. Milk. Parmesan. Dolma from case. Bread. You know what kind." Irina's mother swept her with a look. "No caffeine for you. Come back in half an hour, you can catch your Father before he is out again."
Irina stifled a growl and nodded. "Milk. Parm. Dolma. Bread. Got it." She dredged up a smile for her mother and hoped it looked genuine, and then got out of there before she managed to hurt the woman more. Irina took the stairs down rather than waiting for the elevator. She was in a self-punishing mood, thudding down the treads hoping to nudge the damned migraine into manifesting. It had been hovering for days and she hated walking on eggshells to avoid it.
Better have it and get it over with.
She gave the street door a shove and hit the sidewalk, her cap wadded in her hand. Dressed in just her slacks and a dark cotton tank top, they were the only concession she made for the weather. Like the migraine, thunderstorms had threatened since Monday and the entire city felt the smothering weight of them. Heavy and wet, the air was thick with ozone and taking a sip of it, Irina could taste the incipient rain on her tongue.
Just wait. I'll have that bag of groceries and the heavens will open up and soak everything. I hate soggy bread.
Sure enough, she'd ducked into Westway Foods on78th, zipped through the aisles of the tiny grocery and had just paid for her purchases when the thunder delivered on its promise. The city disappeared under the deluge. Her parent's apartment was a block and a half away. It would be a miserable dash home.
Should have taken an umbrella, you. Suck it up.
It was coming down in sheets, hard and unforgiving. There was nothing for it. She was getting wet. Irina jammed her cap on tight, tied down the handles of her bag and took off for home. The curb at the corner was water past her ankle. Not that it mattered. She was already soaked to the bone. Keep your eyes peeled. Don't get creamed by a taxi. A block further west on Broadway she heard the crunch of metal over the roar of the rain, followed by the whoop of a car alarm. Habit made her turn toward the accident but Irina overrode it and hurried on. She took the distance at a jog, her head protesting each strike of her heels on the concrete. The world began to swim and not entirely from the rain.
Self-punishing mood, remember?
When she made it to her building she took the stairs again, migraine be damned. She had her keys ready when she got to her door and made it inside in two seconds flat.
"Got it!" she called and dumped the plastic bag on the dining room table on her way to the back. Her head throbbed and the damned stab behind her eyes was wicked sharp. Meds. Shower. Bed. In that order. Ten blessed minutes under the spray beat back the migraine a notch. The meds kicked in and dialed it further back. Which had the docs convinced her problem wasn't migraines ...
The problem, DiSanti, is you.
Her laptop screen was still glowing when she made it back to her room again. Her task bar showed she had a message while she was out. Looking a little closer, she saw it was from her business account. Intrigued, she sat down and clicked on the icon. The window came up and she opened the message, toweling her hair dry as she began to read.
To the attention of Irina DiSanti:
My name is Jacob Gabriel Carter and I represent a private corporation looking to create an agency specializing in Nova-related incidents that need delicacy and discretion in their resolution. The agency is in need of someone to serve as a frontline agent of sorts. It's a bit of a weird situation and not something that I feel either comfortable or even capable of discussing over email. So I'd like to invite you to Research Triangle Park, Durham, North Carolina for a job interview. We pay exceptionally well (see the information below), but even beyond that, I think that it is the kind of challenging job you would thrive at. And really, if I'm being honest, it's the kind of job you need like other people might need food or water.
I know what it is like to be completely invested in your profession and to have it taken away from you. I know the transition to life afterward can be difficult. For someone like you, retirement is not a viable option. You have an edge that needs to stay sharp. You have been forged by circumstance into something stronger than before, but are you engaged at the best of your abilities right now? If you are, feel free to throw this email into the trash …
...But if you're at all intrigued, I will be at your convenience for that interview. Pack for a couple days stay, come interview with us on our dime. If we can't sell you on this, then you fly home, nothing changes. But I think we can sell you on this. There are several candidates that we're looking at, but in my opinion, you're the best. And I'll be honest. Turn this job down, and I think you'll regret it for the rest of your life.
Jacob Gabriel Carter, VP, Special Operations, NDI (New Day Incorporated.)
(salary information and flight details listed below)
The gauntlet was thrown. It made quite a noise hitting the floor. Try as she might to resist the idea, Irina knew in an instant that this—like the storm breaking around the city of her birth—was the relief she'd been waiting for. The sharp shock to the system that would break the malaise that had gripped her upon crawling home to her parents in defeat.
Was it really three years ago?
She'd been taken and beaten over a period of several days, and then rescued before it killed her. Suffering from broken bones, internal injuries, and a fractured skull, she'd lain comatose for several weeks before coming to in the ICU ward.
She'd rallied and spent three months in recovery before she decided she'd had enough. She signed the necessary waivers for an early discharge, moved back in with her parents, and went back to work. It was her first absence from her job as a homicide detective and she resented every second she'd spent away from it. Crime in NYC waited for no one and Irina refused to fall any further behind. Her Captain, Gerald Grierson, assigned her a partner until she got all the way back on her feet. Irina got along well enough, but nothing could give her back her lost time … or her former good health.
The first migraine struck her two weeks after returning to work. She was on the way to a crime scene and had her partner not grabbed the wheel, she would have jumped the curb right into a storefront.
Her downward slide progressed quickly. In less than a month, she was going through ibuprofen and acetaminophen at an alarming rate. Even the paperwork that chained cops to their desks had become too much to handle. Involuntary retirement caught up with her when her migraines could no longer be denied. All her hard work in getting back to fighting strength, of acing her re-qualifications, of doing the best damned job she was capable of even when her brain was leaking out her ears couldn't change the outcome. Her days on the force were over. She'd read it in Grierson's eyes before he told her the news.
He delivered the notice on a Friday and by Monday the paperwork had come through. Irina suspected he'd pulled strings and called in departmental favors because her exit package was generous. He'd even arranged permission for her to work as a consultant. Grierson told her he wished he could have done more. She accepted the defeat with as much dignity as she could but the weight of his remorse damned near killed her.
Once she'd turned in her service pistol and her badge, she walked out the door and refused to look back. She made it home and managed to explain it to her parents before she locked herself in her room. She spent the next twenty-four hours in a binge of rage and tears punctuated with alcohol and when she dared, analgesics. After that, she cleaned herself up and examined her options.
The severance pay had bought her time, granting a financial cushion while she remade her life into something she could manage, something she could bear. There was no going back to the work she loved but perhaps she could find something that approximated it. The schedule she set herself was brutal. Enduring the long hours and the migraines through sheer force of will, she earned her PI license in two years.
The achievement rang hollow. Being a PI was a poor substitute for what she'd lost but it paid the bills. It filled her days. It did nothing to keep the bad nights at bay, when she couldn't escape the sound of her heart or the pain of her memories, of thinking what might have been. She'd lie awake when sleep was impossible, get up when morning arrived, and push on.
There were days when the migraines precluded getting out of bed. There were other days when she felt almost like her old self again. By degrees, the good days began to equal the bad... and then overtake them. When a month passed without a migraine, she marked it on her calendar and celebrated with caffeinated tea. She paid for it, but not as badly as she'd feared. She whiteknuckled through and kept going.
By the time she'd earned her license she'd had a three month run without a single episode and had run her bank account into the ground. The severance pay still waited in savings ... but she refused to dip into it. The migraines were still with her but were becoming less frequent, less debilitating when they manifested, and today ... It threatened, it arrived, and then it left without much of a fight. A sign, perhaps, that her fortunes were finally turning around.
Carter's email. Something unlooked for. Serendipitous.
Irina blinked at her laptop screen and considered what she had in front of her. Her license was barely past a year old, good only for the state of New York and here she was, contemplating flying south to North Carolina on an invitation from someone she didn't even know.
That's it, DiSanti. You have finally gone insane.
And yet ...
Putting aside her personal problems for a moment, she clicked on the message header, stared at the originating address, and did what every 21st century person looking for information did: she Googled Jacob Gabriel Carter, VP, Special Operations, New Day Incorporated. Opening several more tabs without waiting for the results, she pulled up an online background check site, the Better Business Bureau site, and all the other workhorses of her investigatory trade. Using the information from the search results, she dug a little deeper. After half an hour, she had proof that New Day Incorporated was indeed a real entity and that Jacob Gabriel Carter did indeed exist as their VP of Special Operations. She even managed to find a service photo of him from his time in the armed services. She stared at his photo, memorizing it before saving it to her growing file on the man and the company he worked for.
There were details that bothered her. New Day Incorporated, Durham, North Carolina wasn't very old, having come into existence only recently. Open source records on it were shallow. Looking into the financial side of it was a challenge. It was a privately held, with no public stock or NASDAQ figures from the end of the day to look up. There was no telling how deep the money went or where it came from. There wasn't even much to clue her in on what New Day Incorporated did other than what Jacob Gabriel Carter divulged in the email: An agency specializing in Nova-related incidents that need delicacy and discretion in their resolution. What did that mean, exactly? Pro bono law practice? A charity? Bonds brokering? Money laundering? How many people are behind that privately-held shield, anyway?
It was a rabbit hole she could feel coming on. Seduced by the possibilities for a case, driven to find out if her hunch was right, it would be hours before she climbed back out. It was that old feeling from the Job and for once, it didn't hurt. And it's telling me that there's more to this but what? An agency specializing in Nova-related incidents that need delicacy and discretion in their resolution. Shallow records. Privately held. There's something here. Something I'm missing … Carter seems on the level, but …
But the email still waited for her reply.
She dithered a moment, then pulled up the various flight schedules out of LaGuardia for Durham, North Carolina. Flights in all their permutations could have her there in 24 hours if she wished it. She checked Carter's email again. The salary was more than generous for someone still relatively untried as a PI. Why her? Analyzing the language of the message, Irina got the sense that Mr. Jacob Carter knew of her past career.
How?
She no longer carried a badge but the NYPD protected its own. Grierson and her superiors had kept her case out of the papers. Her record would raise no flags. IAD had cleared her of wrongdoing before she'd even gained consciousness, granting her an honorable discharge from duty. Her brothers and sisters in blue would breathe no word of it to outsiders. They had good reason: Irina's kidnapping was still unsolved, the men who had taken her still at large. No one on the force knew if they'd try to take her again. Damned if they'd give the bastards a second chance.
Irina followed suit. She erased as much of her digital footprint as she could. She sold her condo quietly through a realtor who valued discretion. She closed her social network accounts. She cancelled print subscriptions in her name. She had her mail routed to a new post office box at a different location. She turned off the GPS and location apps on her phone. She moved back on the QT with her parents. She used cash whenever possible. A determined individual, using proper precautions, could remain anonymous despite the surveillance cameras that blanketed New York.
Irina DiSanti was nothing if not determined.
Yet somehow Carter had found her. Paranoia raked through her gut before common sense asserted itself. Her years on the force were a matter of open public record, if the exact reasons for her retirement were not. She was a registered PI for the State of New York. She billed clients. She paid taxes. Carter was VP of Special Operations, which implied a certain skill set, applied in a certain way. He would be a very poor VP of Special Operations if he didn't run a background check and pull her financials before sending that email.
You're stalling. Second guessing. Stop. If it doesn't work, it doesn't work. You've got your fall back right here. If it works ...
Irina clicked reply and typed:
Mr. Carter,
All right. I'm intrigued. I can be in Durham, Friday, 28 Aug 2009. Will that suit?
Irina DiSanti
She resolutely hit send. She wasn't exactly waiting in her chair for the response, but Irina couldn't deny she stayed close. She dried her hair. She hung up the towel and grabbed a decaf tea from the kitchen, giving her mother a hug on her way back. She flopped belly down on her bed with a book only to stare at the pages without reading them. Would he reply back tonight? Or will I have to put up with the suspense til tomorrow? Or God, what if he never answers back? Christ, DiSanti, you're not in high school waiting for your boyfriend to ask you to the prom. Chill.
She rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling. She'd had plenty of opportunity to stare at it in the past year and she knew every bump and dimple of its topography. Occasionally it had held answers when working a case, trying to piece the evidence together. Is this what this is? A case? A case in what?
Ten minutes after her response went out, Irina tossed her book aside and shoved for the foot of her bed, the better to hang her head upside down to eyeball her monitor. The email icon was blinking. Twisting upright she got over there and parked herself at her laptop and opened the message.
Read it. Looked askance.
Huh.
She read it again, hearing the words in her head:
Great!
I'll be waiting for you at the airport with a car. The plan is to take you to your hotel and the interview will be the next night over dinner. New Day Incorporated is run by good people and it's the main reason I took this job.
During the day on Saturday, we'd like you to take the car we'll provide and drive around the Raleigh-Durham Triangle Area. NDI (and I agree with this) believes it is best not to give polished guided tours, but to let you explore your own way, making sure you don't feel pushed or influenced in any way. That's how it worked with my job interview.
Interview on Saturday and then a flight back on Sunday. Should be smooth sailing.
Looking forward to meeting you,
Jake
Down the hall, she heard the front door open and close, caught the distinctive jingle of her father's keys and their silence a second later when he pocketed them. It was a routine she'd mapped with her ears for years, first as a girl waiting for her father to come home so she could pounce on him before he hit the sofa and took a load off, then later as a teen, already fixed on following his footsteps into the force. As he'd once done with her, sharing aspects of his cases over the kitchen table, so she had done after she'd moved back in. She twitched in her chair, almost rising to tell him about this latest development before her gut told her to stay silent.
Not yet.
She reread the email and parsed it carefully. She pulled up the initial email and parsed it again, then put the two side by side, scanning for inconsistencies. If it was a scam, it was tightly constructed. Primarily because it hasn't given too much away yet. Liars generally gild the lily and give the game way.
She leaned back in her chair and regarded the ceiling again. You know you're already on that plane, DiSanti. And you're going to treat this as a case til it says different. She closed her eyes and the last of her resistance melted away, as did the last lingering tendrils of her not-quite-migraine. Pack for three days. Something nice for the interview. Casual for the rest. It's the South. It's going to be hot.
A quick check on a weather website for the area confirmed her suspicions. A check of her calendar showed her what she already knew. She had no cases pending. No roadblocks to going south. No reason not to go. All she had to do was pack. Irina typed a quick message and sent it:
Jake,
I'll be there. Looking forward to sailing.
Irina
She shut her laptop and left her room, to refill her tea and to tell her parents she would be out for the weekend.
Friday, 28 Aug 2009
Raleigh-Durham International,
Morrisville, North Carolina
2143hrs, local time
Despite its name, Raleigh-Durham International was not located in Raleigh or Durham. It was located between the two cities in Morrisville. Irina rose from her seat, marveling at being able to do so without bumping into anything. Traveling First Class definitely had its upside. At five-foot-nine, Irina appreciated the room. One of the flight attendants had already retrieved her luggage—a single carryon—and Irina smiled her thanks at the woman.
"Thank you for flying with us tonight, Ms. DiSanti. We look forward to seeing you again soon."
Irina shook hands with the pilot and stepped off the plane. The jetway was tight against the fuselage but the air from the outside made it a humid and stifling walk to the boarding gate. The AC managed to greet her two-thirds of the way down and by then her sleeveless silk shirt was sticking to her skin. The sudden chill made her shiver, her bare arms clothed in gooseflesh. Irina put up with the inevitable physical consequences and strode for the main concourse. As airport terminals went, it was a nicely designed one. Everything was spacious, brightly lit, and well laid out. Irina eyed the soaring structural beams and the skylights overhead. During the day, the terminal would be positively dazzling. At well after nine in the evening, it glowed like a jewel box and the reflections against the night outside shone on the glass. Gripping her soft leather briefcase in one hand and flipping her linen jacket over her shoulder, Irina scanned the lobby below as she descended, looking for her ride.
Jake Carter spotted her immediately, her briefcase and professional attire setting her apart from the rest of the casual tourists getting off the planes. He liked her on first glance. She strode with purpose and with focus, and those were two things Jake looked for in someone he planned to work with. As always, Jake paid attention to everyone coming and going but at this time of night, very few people were playing attention to anything but leaving, much less of him. Then again, he needed only one person to pay attention. He held up his sign saying "DiSanti" and waited for her to approach.
Irina swept the lobby with a practiced eye, spotting the sign and the man holding it. He was tall, sandy-haired, and fit. There was a tautness to him that betrayed energy held in check, making her think of a Doberman leaning into its leash. She automatically noted the details. Six-two, blonde on blue, military cut on the hair, no glasses, 220 easy. Wearing a light polo shirt, loose shorts, and leather topsiders, he was dressed sensibly for the weather. She caught the shine of an expensive watch on his wrist, a heavy gold ring on his right hand and a plain silver band on his left. Then their eyes met and Irina dialed back her scrutiny. She closed the distance, shifted her jacket to her other arm, and stuck out her hand with a nod.
"Jacob Carter, I presume?"
"Yes, ma'am. It's a pleasure. Please call me Jake."
Irina flicked a glance down as they shook hands and the mental notetaking continued. Marine Corps Ring. Firm grip. Dry. Nothing to prove. An officer and a gentleman. She made sure her jacket would stay in the crook of her arm, despite the bag she carried, and flicked a glance at the night outside. Nothing resembling a hotel was in view. "I can only assume we've a ride ahead of us?"
And she hoped that ride would take her to the accommodations implied in the job offer. Jake Carter seemed legit, but even she had to admit she was a woman traveling alone and she'd left her gun back home in New York. If it came down to a fight, she'd maybe last ten seconds. Long enough to scream, not long enough for anyone to get to her in time. She kept her thoughts from her face, however, and gave him an inquiring smile.
"Right this way, ma'am," Jake said with an answering smile. He smoothly took her bag and noted its weight. Light. Another mark in her favor. "Welcome to the Triangle."
Go to Triangle Nova Investigations | Characters | Timeline | Traveler's Guide to TNI
