She snapped back. "Yeah."

"Okay, look, we don't know where you're heading with this but-"

"Neither do I, Bobby. Neither do I." She clicked off, stopped the vehicle next to a small park, hopped out, and started to sprint.

She was having thoughts that were terrifying her. And all she could do right now was try and outrun them, even as the image of her father watching her from the window, his face seized into a solid mask of what she didn't quite know, chased her all the way.

CHAPTER 23

WHILE HIS PARTNER was in Tennessee trying to confront family demons, Sean was finishing up some Italian take-out in his office and still studying the reams of paper he'd printed off the computer. He was hoping that buried in here somewhere was a clue that would tell him if Tuck Dutton had had his wife killed and his daughter kidnapped for reasons yet unknown.

The ringing phone interrupted his thoughts. It was Jane Cox.

She said, "I want you to meet me at the hospital. Tuck wants to talk to you."

"About what?" he asked warily.

"I think you know."

Sean pulled on his jacket and walked down to his rental. His car was in the shop with about eight thousand bucks' worth of damage and his insurance company was telling him that a bullet barrage was not covered under his policy.

"Why not?" he'd argued.

"Because we consider it a terrorist act and you don't have a terrorism rider," replied the insurance grunt, somehow managing to convey this denial in a cheery tone.

"It wasn't terrorism. It was a criminal act and I was the victim."

"There were thirty-seven bullet holes in your car, Mr. King. Under our policy guidelines that is not a criminal act, it's terrorism."

"You go by the number of bullet holes! How the hell does that make sense, lady?"

"You can always appeal the decision."

"Really? What do your guidelines say the odds are of me winning that appeal? Less than zero?"

Miss Cheery had hung up on him after thanking him for his business.

He started up the car and was preparing to back out when someone tapped on his window. He looked around. It was a woman, early thirties, blonde hair, shapely, too much red lipstick, and with the dried-out skin of someone forced to undergo pancake face paint on a daily basis to fight the high-def cameras. She was holding a microphone with a built-in digital recorder like it was a grenade she was about to heave.

He glanced behind her and saw the news truck ease into view and block his exit.

Crap.

Sean rolled down the window.

"Can I help you?"

"Sean King?"

"That's right. Look, I gave the media pool guy a statement. You can piggyback off him."

"Developments dictate a fresh angle."

"What developments?"

"Did you steal confidential records from the office computer of Tuck Dutton?"

Sean's stomach gave a heave and part of his veal picatta got bumped up into his throat.

"I don't know what you're talking about. Who told you that?"

"Do you deny going to his office?"

"I'm not admitting or denying anything."

"Tuck Dutton's firm is a government contractor working on highly classified matters for DHS."

"So are you a reporter or a company spokesperson? I can't tell."

"Do you realize it's a crime to steal someone else's property? And if you're found to have stolen classified information for purposes of espionage you could be charged with treason?"

"Okay, now you sound like a lawyer wannabe. I happen to be the genuine article. So if you don't get your buddy back there to move his van, I'm going to see how far I can push it down the street with my wheels. And then I'll pull him out of the van and start to 'assault and battery' him. But I'll just call it self-defense. It's less of a prosecutable offense that way."

"Are you threatening us?"

"I'm one second away from calling the cops and charging your ass with unlawful detention, harassment, and slander. Go look those up in your Black's Law Dictionary while you're cramming for the LSATs."

Sean gunned the motor and slammed the car into reverse.

The woman jumped back and the news van driver nailed the gas just in time to avoid getting T-boned by Sean's ride.

A half hour later Sean was walking to Tuck's hospital room and his mood was growing darker with each stride. Of course he had taken the information, not because he was a spy but because he was trying to determine if Tuck was involved in his wife's murder. It had left him legally exposed, but it wasn't the first time he'd pushed the envelope. That wasn't why he was ticked off. Someone was setting him up to take a fall. And he wanted to know who and why.

He held out his ID to one of the wall of Secret Service agents stationed in the hallway. Because the First Lady was here they took extra time frisking and wanding him and then ushered him into the room. Tuck sat in a chair next to the bed. Jane Cox stood next to him, her hand supportively on her brother's shoulder.

Two agents parked themselves against a wall until Jane said, "Please wait outside." One burly agent gave Sean a piercing look as he and his partner edged to the door. "We'll be right outside, ma'am." He closed the door behind him. Sean turned to face the sister and brother.

"Thank you for coming," Jane said.

"You made it sound like it was important. I hope it is."

His brusque manner seemed to catch the woman off-guard. Before she could respond, Sean turned his attention to Tuck. "You look like you're feeling better. The mother of all concussions healing nicely?"

"It still hurts like hell," said Tuck defensively.

Sean pulled up a chair and sat down across from the pair.

"I just got smacked out of left field by a TV reporter on a witch hunt." He glanced at Jane. "Know anything about that?"

"Of course not, how could I?"

"I don't know." He settled his gaze back on Tuck. "Okay, Tuck, time is of the essence so why beat around the bush? Cassandra Mallory?"

"What about her?"

"Who is she to you?"

"She's an employee of my company."

"That's all?"

"Of course it is."

"That's not what your partner thinks."

"Then he's wrong."

Sean rose and peered out the window. Down below was the motorcade waiting for the First Lady to finish her visit. Life in the bubble. Sean knew it well. Every move treated to the closest scrutiny, sucking the breath right out of you. And yet some spent hundreds of millions of bucks and devoted years of their life to getting to that bubble. Was that insanity, narcissism, or elements of both hidden under the excuse of public service?

He turned back to them, thinking rapidly. If he admitted he knew that the password to Tuck's computer was Cassandra, he'd be confessing his own guilt in hacking into the guy's database. Instead he said, "You willing to take a polygraph on that?"

Tuck started to say something, but Sean saw the First Lady's fingers tighten on his shoulder and no words came out.

"Sean," she began, "why are you doing this?"

"You asked me to investigate this case. That's what I'm doing. I can't help where it might lead, even to places you don't want it to go. You told me to go for it while sitting in the White House. I'm sure you remember. It wasn't that long ago. I believe the exact phrase was, 'Let the chips fall.' "

"I also recall that I asked you to find Willa."

"Well, I can't very well do that if I don't find out who took her and why. And killed Pam in the process." He glared at Tuck when he said this last part.

"I had nothing to do with this," Tuck snapped.

"Then you won't mind taking a polygraph."

"You can't make me take one," he shot back.

"No, but if I go to the FBI and tell them what I've found out, they'll start looking in places you don't want them to look. If you pass the polygraph, I won't do that. That's the deal."