Page 88 of Jonesing for a Spy

The seal on the letterhead is that of the Illinois Bureau of Investigation.

Dear Mr. Anderson,

As per the statutes of the state of Illinois, we officially inform you that you and Electric Peoria are under investigation for fraud. Please do not leave the state. Be prepared for our agents to be on site, at random and at will, for the foreseeable future. Your cooperation is expected.

I don’t read any further. I’m not slow, but I’m certainly not legally-minded. But what in the hell could the IBI be investigating us for? And why would that state contractor’s board be serving this letter on their behalf.

I wasn’t wrong when I told Liam something in my gut is unsettled. How can I even begin to settle this mess?

But more importantly, why am I in it? And why has Electric Peoria gone from fine to hell on wheels since I returned from Alabama?

Only two things have changed—resigning my place on the board and Mirren Jones.

37

brain bleach

Mirren

Sitting in Tavi’s Tea House, I have an ear bud in that no one can spot, and that even fewer would recognize if they do. Tavi moved to town more than a dozen years ago and opened what we locals all assumed would be a one-year venture before she returned to Oregon to be near her kids.

Years later, her tea house is such a smashing success that the woman herself has become a fixture in town. Kind, cool, with more than a hint of old hippie, Tavi has a couple of amazing gifts. But the coolest—at least today—is that she chooses the customer’s tea based on their aura, if the customer allows it. And I allow it.

So I’m tucked in a dark corner, surrounded by deep olive-green walls and pillows with riotous patterns and colors, drinking a Vanilla Pear Oolong latte while Mom goes off-script talking to Franco Smith, Sal’s father, about old times.

She’s on the road to some antique shop and let me listen in on two calls. The first was a bust. The second might as well be, except for one tidbit that Franco doesn’t know he’s spilling. Or—and this is my fear since his reputation is stellar—he’s offering in order to plant false information.

“Sal got sent to middle America and was able to find the evidence but wasn’t able to secure it. He was within days of finalizing the case when someone outed him. Real shit sandwich.”

“Reminds me of Suriname. Remember Frank—what was his last name?—embedded at the French embassy getting made?”

“Sal didn’t get made. No one knew. Sounds like he got caught up in a skimming situation of all things.”

“I don’t get it,” Mom says as she drives. “Shoot. I missed my turn.”

That’s a lie, but Franco doesn’t know it. “Employees messing with payroll.” Franco laughs. “My son got taken out by a freaking payroll clerk.”

They continue chatting. Catching up on all things kids and, for Franco, grandkids.

But I’m stuck on what he did provide. Found evidence. Finalizing the case.

I know Strider. And I’d bet my job on his innocence. Hell, I have… But evidence is a twist I didn’t see coming.

Grabbing my phone, I text Brody.

Am I still on administrative leave?

Uncle Alpha

Have I indicated otherwise?

Aren’t there other assignments I can be attached to?

Why are you pushing this, Jones?

That whole pesky paying my bills thing comes to mind.

I may have something in West Virginia that’s long term.