Page 5 of The Santa Claus Con

“How’d that tip come in?” he asks.

“By phone,” I recall. “We couldn’t locate the source.”

“And how did it get to you?” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Tell me you’re not monitoring the tip line.”

“Okay, I’m not monitoring the tip line.”

This earns me another glare.

“Fine. Yes. I was monitoring the tip line,” I admit. “It was the most credible tip that’s come through in months.”

“You used this tip as an excuse to get off desk duty,” Barrel says, seeing right through me.

I look up at the sky. “Fresh air has been known to do people good. If I have to call another reference or hear one more tip called in by a disgruntled neighbor mad at someone for parking in front of their house, I’ll lose it. Put me in, Coach—sir!”

“You should’ve thought about that six months ago before you went rogue,” Barrel says, looking around, “the first time!”

I’m tired, that has to be it. The fluorescent office lights have gotten to me. I need that vacation now more than ever. For a whole week, I won’t have to think about paperwork or check references on government employment applications or transcribe interviews. I’ll spend time with family, eat beef noodle soup for lunch, dinner, and, screw it, breakfast, too. And I won’t risk my life tracking down a Christmas-tree-star bomb or get scolded for following my instincts. Yeah, this is going to be a really nice trip.

“Look, Payne, what you did this morning, you were clearly on to something,” Barrel says.

I perk up. This is it. Finally—finally!—he’s going to take me off desk duty. I’ve proved myself this morning. I can get back undercover—

“But this was out of line. You’re on desk duty for another three months, minimum,” he says, holding up a hand to my open mouth ready to protest. He goes quiet when Special Agent Burns taps him on the shoulder.

“Sir, you need to see this,” Burns says quietly.

I have a dozen rebuttals ready for when Barrel’s done with whatever Burns has to show him. Another three months? I’m useless on the desk. Every part of me needs to be out in the world pretending to be someone else while saving very real lives.

The two of them review something on a tablet. I pretend to stretch out my neck and peer over to try to catch a glimpse. They speak in hushed tones, and already I can sense that our conversation’s over. On to the next case. More people need saving, and right now, that’s more important than whether I’m out in the field.

Barrel’s jaw tightens, his eyes going cold as he reads what’s on the screen. “This was delivered to the office twenty minutes ago?” he asks Burns, who nods.

It sounds serious.

I step away. “Okay, I can finish up here, sir. I’ll be in soon to write up my report.”

“Payne, don’t go anywhere.”

I shuffle back. “Of course, staying right here, sir.”

Barrel narrows his eyes at me and looks like he’s working through something in his head. Then he lifts the tablet and says, “There’s an invitation.”

“To?” I ask.

“Hell if I know. It’s another riddle,” he says, exchanging a glance with Burns before they both look back at me. “And it’s addressed to you.”

Chapter 3

SCARLETT

After evaluations, CT scans, and X-rays at the hospital, I learn I have a fractured rib. Given the circumstances, that’s not so bad.

I carefully change out of my Mrs. Claus outfit and head back to the office in downtown Manhattan, which means Barrel and I don’t get to talk about the invitation again for another two hours, as though that wasn’t the most chilling piece of news of, I don’t know, my entire existence?

I bypass the quadrants of desks in the bullpen, our open floorplan workspace where my squadmates and I make calls, follow clues, and try to stop bad things from happening to good people. I beeline straight to my desk, where Barrel’s waiting with the invite. An ominous invitation-that-hopefully-isn’t-a-threat addressed to me? What am I supposed to do with that? This sounds way more up the intelligence analysts’ alley.

But then I read it.