"Did he seem himself?"
"Yes. But why--"
"Did he express any concerns about the trip? Any anxiety? Unexpected excitement?"
"My father was a seasoned traveler, Agent--"
"Smith," he offered. "Did you get the sense this trip was different from others he's taken?"
"None at all."
"You planned to meet last evening? At the Ritz dining room?"
"Yes . . . But how--" She didn't finish the thought. The feds could find out anything. Harry had taught her that. "For a late supper. I didn't make it."
Her throat closed over the words. The agents seemed unmoved by her pain. "We're sorry for your loss, Ms. Middleton, but--"
"Mrs. Perez," her husband corrected, voice tight. "As I said, this is not a good time. Either tell us why you're here or leave."
Agent Smith looked Perez in the eyes. "Perez is a well known name down in Louisiana."
Perez frowned. "Meaning what?"
"It's a name we're familiar with, that's all."
Jack August Perez. His family, descendants of the original Spaniards that settled the New Orleans area, wielded both political and economic influence. In the era of Huey P. Long, they had exerted that power with an iron fist, nowadays with business savvy and brilliant connections.
Angry color stained Perez's cheeks. "What are you getting at?"
Don't let him get to you, she thought. Emotions lead to mistakes. Ones that could prove deadly. Another of Harry's pearls.
What the hell was going on?
She touched her husband's clenched hand. "It's all right, sweetheart. It's just a couple of questions."
"Thank you, Mrs. Perez. Has your father contacted you in the past twenty-four hours?"
"No. I expect his flight was delayed. I'm used to that sort of thing with Harry."
At her response, she felt her husband's startled glance. She didn't acknowledge it. "How did you know I was here, Agent Smith?"
He ignored the question. "I'm afraid your father's in some trouble."
She noticed that while Agent Smith spoke, his partner studied her reactions. She also noticed that every so often he rubbed the back of his hand against his leg, as if scratching at a bite or wiping at a stain.
Most un-fed like. Feds were trained to be as robotic as possible. Nervous twitches were not an option.
"Trouble? I don't understand."
"He was questioned in Warsaw concerning three murders in Europe."
"Harry?" That incredulous retort came from Perez. "You have the wrong Harold Middleton."
The agent's gaze flickered to Perez, then settled on her once more. "Your father was able to catch an Air France flight out of Paris several hours later. He arrived at Dulles--then he shot and killed a police officer."
She who couldn't hold back. "Impossible!"
"I'm sorry."
"That's not my father."
"I understand how you must feel. It's a shock, but we have witnesses--"
"My father couldn't have shot anybody. First off, Harold Middleton has spent his life fighting for what's right. Hunting down and bringing to justice the sorts of monsters who terrorize and murder. That said, where did he get a gun? He'd just gotten off an international flight. Who was this cop? Why would my father want to kill him?"
She held his gaze; the tense silence crackled between them. After a moment, the agent broke the contact, inclined his head. "Those are all questions only your father can answer. We need to speak with him."
The last thing she was about to do was help them find Harry.
The Feds were like buzzards on road kill--once they made up their mind someone was guilty, they'd move heaven and earth to "prove" it.
"What can I do?" she asked, sounding annoyingly earnest to her own ears.
"Let us know the minute you hear from him." Agent Smith handed her his card. She gazed down at it, adorned with the Bureau's familiar red, white, blue and gold seal.
He handed one to Perez. "That's my cell number. Call anytime, day or night."
"I will." She ran her thumb across the business card, heart pounding. "And if you find him--"
"You'll be the first to know."
"This is all a mistake. You're looking for the wrong man."
"For your sake, I hope so." As the two crossed to the door, Smith turned, meeting her gaze once more. Something in his expression made her skin crawl. "Thank you for your cooperation."
The moment the door shut behind them, she swung her legs over the side of the bed. "We're getting out of here. Now."
"Charley, what--"
"This whole thing stinks. And I'm going to find out wh--" She stood and a wave of dizziness swept over her.
Perez grabbed her arm, steadying her. "Harry's in some trouble, no doubt. But there's nothing you can do about it right now--and certainly not in your condition. I'll get the nurse to call Doctor Levine and find out when you're being released, and we'll plan from there."
She shook off his hand. "You don't get it. I'm not going to lie around here and do nothing when I know Harry's in danger."
"For God's sake, Charley. You're in more danger than he is. You just had a miscarriage. Doctor Levine said to expect discomfort and bleeding. That you'd be weak. He advised taking it easy for a couple days. I'm not letting you walk out of here without his okay."
"Try to stop me." She took a deep breath and looked her husband squarely in the eyes. "Those guys weren't FBI."
Without waiting for a response, she crossed to the room's version of a closet, a press board armoire. Her panties and trousers were bloodstained. The panties were ruined, she decided, so she would have to make do with the pads the hospital had provided. If she tied her jacket around her waist, her dark-colored trousers would do until she could replace them.
She glanced at her husband as he watched her. "Those cards 'Agent Smith' handed us were bogus," she said. "Take a good look. Cheap stock. Laser jet printing. Run your finger over it. The Bureau's cards are engraved. This one could've been printed from any home computer."
She stepped into the stained trousers, a lump in her throat. She swallowed past it. There would be a lifetime to mourn their loss. Right now, Harry needed her.
"The only number on Smith's card," she continued, "is a cell number."
Perez frowned, struggling to come to grips with what she was proposing. "So where's the Bureau's number?"
"Exactly."
He rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Charley, have you considered that you might be a little emotionally unstable right now? You've suffered a loss . . . It's been a shock. I think taking a step back and a deep breath might be a good idea. I'll check you out, we'll go home. See if Harry's there or left us a message. You need a change of clothes, something to eat. We'll sort everything out."
"Do you trust me?"
"Of course."
"Then help me. Please."
In the end, she wore him down. Worried that one of the bogus agents was watching the front of the hospital, she refused to allow him to officially check her out. The hospital would insist on a wheelchair--standard policy--and a front-door exit. Instead they took the stairs and slipped out the delivery entrance.
She waited while he brought the car around. Once they were both buckled in, he looked at her. "What's the plan?"
"We find Harry."
He smiled at her. "Good plan. How do y--"
The faint sound of a digitized version of the song "Brown-Eyed Girl" interrupted him.
Her cell phone's ring tone.
"It's in your purse," he said. "I locked it in the--"
"Trunk."
He shifted into park, threw open his car door and climbed out. A moment later he returned with her purse, cell clipped to it, message light blinking frantically.
A number she didn't recognize--perhaps her father had bought a prepaid for security. She quickly scrolled through a half-dozen missed calls and one text message waiting. All from Harry.
She returned the last call first, and
it was answered on the first ring. "Dad, it's me. Thank God! I was so worried."
"Charlotte! Where are you?"
"Jack and I--"
She bit the words back, realization crashing in on her. Not her father. Her father hadn't called her Charlotte since the second grade."
"Charlotte? Sweetheart, are you--"
With a sound of distress, she hung up. "Drive, Jack. Now."
He did as she instructed. "What happened?"
"Someone pretended to be Harry. They wanted to know where I was."
"Check your messages."
She did. At the sound of her father's voice relief flooded her.
"Charley, I've been delayed. I hope to still make a late dinner. Love you."
She frowned at the second message. "Charley, there's a situation here. I'll explain everything when I get there. Look . . . Be careful. Stay with Jack. Don't trust anyone you don't know. My flight's due into Dulles at 7:10 p.m."
By the third and last message there was no denying the panic in his voice. "Where are you? I'm boarding the Paris flight. When you get this, dial back so I'll know you're okay."
She checked the text message next.
GREEN LANTERN EVAC SCOTLAND
She stared at those four little words, feeling as if all the air had suddenly been sucked out of the car's interior.
"What's wrong?"
"Change in plans. We're going to Capitol Hill. The Scotland--The St. Regis."
While he drove, she explained about the code. When she finished, he glanced at her. "This is a gag?"
"Hardly. Harry would never have sent that text message unless it was for real."
"Maybe he didn't send it?"
The thought chilled her, but only for a moment. "No, no one else would know our code. Even mother only knew part of it. Harry sent it."
"This makes no sense. It's like some cloak-and-dagger parlor game. Only you're telling me it's real." Perez pulled up in front of the hotel. "What is your dad, some kind of a spy?"
She flung open the car door. "Wait here. I'll be right back."
Moments later, she greeted the guest services agent. She dug a photo of Harry out of her wallet; the guy at the desk squinted at it, then nodded.
"He was here. Looking for some woman. You, I suppose. Went to the bar to wait."
She thanked him and hurried to the lounge. She saw right away that he wasn't there.
She crossed to the bar. The bartender was busy with another patron, a stunning redhead. While she waited for him to finish, her attention was drawn to the television behind the bar, the news story being broadcast. A shooting at Dulles. A police officer down. The grainy image of the suspect.
Harry. It couldn't be true.
"What can I get you?"
She looked at the bartender. She had the photo of her father out, ready to ask if the man had seen him, if he knew where he'd gone. Instead, she shook her head and slipped the photo back into her pocket. She couldn't chance him recognizing Harry and sounding the alarm.
"Nothing. I just remembered . . . Sorry."
She turned and quickly left, aware of the bartender's gaze on her. As she strode past the desk again, she glanced the attendant's way. He was on the phone; when he saw her looking his way, he quickly averted his eyes.
If those goons had what they wanted, they wouldn't have paid her the little visit in the hospital. That was the good news.
The bad news. Harry was wanted in connection with the murder of a cop. That part of the "agent's" story had been legitimate.
By now, the police knew who he was, where he worked and lived. Where she lived. They were amassing the names of friends and coworkers. He wouldn't be able to use his credit cards or cell phone. His car would be off-limits, as would his home.
He had two groups after him--the fake police and the real ones.
Her husband was waiting for her at the hotel entrance, expression tight. "Any luck?"
"He was here. He's not now."
"Look, I was listening to the news and--"
"I know," she said, cutting him off. "I saw it on the TV. In the bar."
They hurried up the block to their BMW and slid inside. "Maybe those guys were real agents?"
"No way," she replied. "Mother lives close by. Maybe she's heard from him."
"Sylvia and your father hate each other."
Hate was a strong word, but she certainly wouldn't call them friends. A more mismatched union she couldn't imagine. Plus, her mother had never forgiven Harry for Charlotte liking him more than her. And for turning her only child into what she called a "do-gooder, spy-in-training."
The marriage's final straw had been the brief affair he'd had with one of his fellow Volunteers--Leonora Tesla.
"Let's try there anyway. At the very least, I can borrow a change of clothes."
Her mother would ask about the baby. They'd have to explain. She brought a hand to her empty belly. She didn't want to talk about it. She couldn't.
Falling apart was a luxury she couldn't afford right now.
They made her mother's upscale Georgetown neighborhood in less than 20 minutes. Easing to a stop in front of the two-story colonial, they climbed out of the car and hurried up the walk.
Her mother's Mercedes sedan was parked in the drive. The porch was dark, though light glowed in several of the windows.
Charley rang the bell. From inside came the frenzied yapping of Bella, her mother's Pomeranian.
"Mother!" she called, ringing again. "It's me!"
Maybe she'd gone out with a friend who had picked her up. Or she was on a date.
No. This wasn't right. She felt it in her gut.
Beside her, Perez dialed his mother-in-law's number. It rang twice, four times, six times.
Heart thundering, she dug in her purse for her key ring. She kept one of her mother's spares in case of emergency. She found it, fitted the key in the lock and eased the door open.
"Mom!" she called. Bella came running from the kitchen, across her mother's bright white carpeting. Leaving a trail of perfect little paw prints.
Red prints.
A cry slipped past her lips. With an order for her to "stay put," Perez started for the kitchen. She followed.
They stopped at the kitchen entry. Her mother lay on the tile floor. Face up, eyes open. Vacant. Seeping blood had formed wing shapes on either side of her torso. Bella had run around and around her mistress, through the blood, creating a bizarre, almost floral pattern on the white tile.
Her mother had been dressed for bed. She wore a teal-colored silk robe. The robe's flap had fallen open, exposing her legs and an edge of lacy lingerie. One hand rested on her chest, as if she had grabbed at her heart, the other at her side.
"Oh Mother." Whimpering, she took a step forward, then stopped, lightheaded, and grasped the counter for support.
Her husband inched toward his mother-in-law's body, careful to avoid the blood. He squatted and checked her pulse.
Struggling to come to grips with what had happened, she shifted her gaze. It landed on an item peeking out from under the cabinet. She blinked, focusing. A candy-bar wrapper. With the toe of her shoe, she nudged it out. Milka, a European brand, one difficult to acquire in the states. She tilted her head. This one was from Poland.
She stared at it, blood thundering in her head. Her father's favorite chocolate. His secret passion. One that they shared.
"She's dead, Charley."
"We've got to get out of here. Now." She snatched up the candy wrapper and stuffed it into her pocket.
"What are you doing? Charley, that could be evidence. We've got to call the police."
"They're going to try to pin this on Harry."
"Have you thought that maybe he did--"
"Never, not Dad. He sent me that text message because I'm in danger too. Mother was as well. I don't know why this is happening, but I trust him."
"With your life? With mine as well?"
"Yes." She pressed her lips together as the full meanin
g of what was happening set in. "We've got to find him."
"How?" Perez dragged a shaking hand through his hair. "We're not wanted by the police, but I'm sure they're looking for us."
She looked back at her mother, fighting back despair--and the urge to crawl into her husband's arms and sob. She was Harold Middleton's daughter. She would hunt down whoever had done this. And make him--or her--pay.
In the distance came the sound of sirens. "The lake house," she said, starting for her mother's bedroom and a change of clothes. "Eventually, Harry will look for us there."
6
JOHN RAMSEY MILLER
In the Dulles parking lot, FBI Agent In Charge M. T. Connolly watched homicide detectives process a policeman's corpse. A deep ligature mark around the murdered cop's neck and blossoms of red in the white of his eyes made cause of death obvious, the same way the security videos made just as obvious the identity of the man who killed him, stole his uniform and stuffed him into the back of a Jeep, where he now lay.
The detectives had arrived in response to the shooting of a state trooper in the concourse. Despite early reports to the contrary, Trooper George was still alive, but in grave condition. Three bullets had deformed against his bulletproof vest and one had gone high and deflected against the collar and severed an artery. He wasn't expected to live. If he did, he could have serious brain damage from blood loss.
Accompanied by homicide detectives, Connolly had gone from the parking deck to the security offices to view the video surveillance. She got a good look at the fake cop who'd fired at the passenger identified by customs as Harold Middleton. Middleton had taken away the assailant's gun and subsequently fired in self-defense. Trooper George assumed the cop was in the right and his target a felon--an understandable mistake. Initially, she had jumped to the same conclusion in the melee, but she had been shackled to her idiot prisoner and couldn't give pursuit until it was too late. She'd assumed that the fake cop had chased Middleton to capture him, but it was now clear he'd run away from her and other security officers who'd come rushing at the sound of gunfire on the concourse. It was also apparent that the fake cop had drawn his gun on Middleton right after Middleton seemed to recognize him.
After Middleton captured the Beretta and used it to defend himself from the trooper's gunfire, he'd fled through an emergency door. The fake cop, wearing the purloined and somewhat ill-fitting uniform, had vanished as had Middleton.
Her next reaction had been to use Bureau resources to find out all she could about Middleton and the cop killer. She and the detectives had agreed that Middleton would be identified only as a material witness who had to be picked up immediately for his own protection. Unless the uniformed cop-killer got to him first. His description was circulated immediately to area law enforcement--picture to follow as soon as it could be printed from the surveillance video--and he was identified as a wanted cop-killer, which meant he'd only live through his apprehension if they found him naked and lying face down on the pavement in front of live TV film crews.