Luis’s attention was grabbed by the garage door opening. A woman stepped out-middle-aged, pleasant-looking, gray hair tied in a bun. She had a dog on the leash, a white Lab. He seemed to be chipper, nice. She placed a trash bag in one of the garbage bins, let the dog do his thing. One of the agents in the Ford got out and walked a short distance up the driveway. The two chatted for a moment, the woman staying in the safety of the garage. Luis looked closely. He didn’t see anyone else inside.
The laundry truck lumbered down the street, passing him.
The two in the Taurus wouldn’t prove to be much of a problem. He’d dealt with this before.
Fraternidad esto destino. Luis sighed. It was fated. The choice had already been made. He would wait, watch, until he saw his target. He covered the Sig nine-millimeter on the seat across him with a newspaper.
Next time he’d be doing his thing.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Two days later Kate’s taxi pulled up in front of the stuccoed, Spanish-style building tucked behind the Arby’s in a strip mall in Mill Valley, California, across the bay from San Francisco.
“This it, ma’am?” the driver asked, checking the yellow stuck-on numbers over the building’s glass doors.
Kate tried to read the sign. This was the fourth location she’d been to that day. She was starting to get a little jet-lagged and discouraged, starting to think maybe her brainstorm wasn’t such a flash of brilliance after all, but just some crazy wild-goose chase that would land her in a lot of trouble later on.
“Yes, this is it.” She cracked open the door.
The name over the entrance read GOLDEN GATE SQUASH.
Kate had decided to start out with the Bay Area. She knew she couldn’t rent a car-that was traceable, so she stuck with cabs. Yesterday she’d driven down to Palo Alto and San Jose. Earlier today to the Athletic Club downtown, then across the Bay Bridge to a sport-splex in Berkeley. No one had recognized Em’s picture. Not at any of these clubs. San Francisco was only one city. Kate had three more to go, following the band’s tour. And a lot more clubs.
She’d headed straight to the airport after eluding Oliva. The little escapade with Fergus was the only thing in the past few weeks that had given her a reason to smile. What wasn’t nearly so amusing was the note she’d left for Greg, how she’d had to run out and not be honest with him. She scribbled, “I know it’s going to be hard for you to understand this, Greg, but I’ve got to find something out, no matter how we try to pretend it will go away-and I couldn’t let you talk me out of it and tell me how foolish this is, which I knew you would try to do. It is foolish-it is crazy. Just know that I’m safe and that I love you, and that I’ll think of you every day. Please try not to worry. I’ll call you when I get there. Wherever that is. I love you, but this is something I have to do.
“And don’t forget Fergus’s heart pill before you go to bed!!!”
It was tough, hiding things from him. Kate felt disloyal. He was her husband, her closest friend. They were supposed to share everything. She trusted him more than anyone in her life. She knew she should at least call. Last night at the hotel, she’d picked up the phone to call him to let him know she was safe and had gotten as far as punching in his number. Then she put the phone down. Something held her back. Kate didn’t know what.
Maybe he wouldn’t understand. And she didn’t want to hear it. Maybe she just had to keep this part of her life separate.
Kate opened the door to the squash club. Immediately she heard the sharp, thwacking sound of the ball slamming against the hardwood walls. There were several white-walled courts with clear glass fronts. A couple were in play. Two sweating men, who had obviously just finished up and had towels draped over their necks, were downing fluids, going over their game. Kate walked up to an athletic-looking, red-haired man in a squash shirt, standing behind the front desk.
“Excuse me, I’m trying to locate someone. You mind taking a look?”
“Not at all.”
She handed him Emily’s photo, one taken last year at the junior Maccabean Games. “She’s my sister. I think she plays out here.”
The redheaded pro took a long look. He shook his head. “Sorry, I’m afraid I’ve never seen her before.” He had an English accent and smiled at her, somewhat apologetically.
“You’re sure?” Kate pressed. “Her name’s Emily. She’s seventeen. She’s a ranked player back east. She’s just moved out here with my dad. I know she plays somewhere in town. I just want to surprise her.”
The squash pro shrugged again, handing Kate back the photo. “I run the junior program here. If she played here, I’d definitely know her. Have you checked Berkeley yet?”
Kate exhaled in disappointment. “Yeah, I have.” She folded the photo back into her bag and said, “Thanks, anyway.”
On her way out, she took sort of a desperate, final look around, as if she’d missed Em the first time and she might just suddenly materialize out of nowhere. She knew that this was a long shot. Even if her hunch had been right, there were dozens of places they could be and dozens of squash programs, too. Kate felt a little foolish playing cop. She was a scientist, not an investigator.
She went back outside.
“Back to the motel?” the cabbie asked as she climbed in again. He’d driven her around all day.
“No.” Kate shook her head. “Airport.”
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Phil Cavetti took the 7:00 A.M. shuttle back to New York, heading straight from La Guardia to FBI headquarters in lower Manhattan.
The proverbial shit was hitting the fan.
As if the fact that one of his closest colleagues had been found dead weren’t enough-on top of that, one of that agent’s own case subjects was implicated in the murder. Now, in another of her cases, one of the government’s most valuable assets in the entire WITSEC Program, a man whose information had put dozens of criminals away, was MIA as well.
Cavetti was unable to connect the dots, other than to the point where his own career intersected with disaster. And he didn’t like what he saw. Forget northern Michigan -the ice fields of North Dakota seemed a more likely prospect now. It was imperative they find Raab. Even more imperative they locate Bachelor Number One.
Now, unbelievably, Kate Raab was missing, too.
Nardozzi and Special Agent Alton Booth were waiting in the small conference room on the fourth floor of the Javits Federal Building when he arrived.
“This better be important.” The prosecutor put down his cell phone, looking plenty annoyed. “I’ve got a junior attorney stepping in to do a cross on a Pakistani cabdriver who’s accused of plotting to blow up the TKTS counter in Times Square.”
Cavetti removed three folders from his briefcase. “Trust me, it is.”
He tossed the reports he had prepared for the deputy director, marked “Restricted Access,” onto the table. They contained the FBI report on Margaret Seymour, the subsequent disappearance of Benjamin Raab, and the incident on the Harlem River involving his daughter Kate. One or two need-to-know details had been omitted.
“So how the hell is Kate Raab?” Alton Booth asked, taking a chug of his coffee.
“Gone.”
“Gone? Like in Puerto Vallarta, gone. I thought after what happened on the river you had her under guard 24/7.”
“Gone, like in left him holding the pooch.” Cavetti closed his eyes, chagrined. “She boarded a United flight two days ago for San Francisco. After that, your guess is as good as mine. She was smart enough not to rent a car at the airport. We have our guys checking cabs.”
“Cabs.” Booth stared implacably at him. “You know, this Blue Zone of yours is starting to get a little fucking crowded for me, Phil.”