“Eww,” Roberts said, though she wasn’t easily offended.
“Machowski!” Hunt said. “You want to get to part where you tell us why you called?”
“Oh, yeah, right. Turns out the limo was ‘borrowed’ from the company’s lot sometime the day before. No one reported it stolen because business had been a little slow—no proms or weddings—so no one thought to look. So, the limo’s a dead end.
“But, here’s where things start looking up. Less than an hour after the kid disappeared from school in the limo, a private jet took off from Willow Run Airport east of Ypsilanti. Fixed Base Operator that serviced the plane says one of its employees was in the hanger driving the tug that pulled the plane out to the taxiway when an SUV pulled into the hanger. Two people got out, a man and a boy. Both of them boarded the plane.”
“Could be Keator’s son, in other words,” Roberts said.
“You got it,” Machowski said. “Pilot filed a flight plan to Montgomery County Airpark.”
“Maryland?”
“That’s the one.”
“That puts them in D.C.,” Hunt said. “Or close by.”
“Sure does. Plane landed this afternoon. Davis had the RA in Rockville chase down the pilot. They brought him in and questioned him, but he didn’t know anything. Said it was a straight-up charter, and lots of times he doesn’t know who he’s flying because they want privacy. Said this was the same deal. Said he just picks them up and drops them off. Some job, huh? No better than a New York hack.”
“Who chartered the plane?” Hunt said, impatience in his voice growing.
“Shell corporation. Davis is trying to run it down, but it doesn’t look good.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Roberts told Hunt. “What matters is that your instincts were right. If the kid on that plane was Preston Keator, that means al-Qadir’s in D.C. somewhere. We just have to figure out where.”
“Thanks, Machowski,” Hunt said. “Stay on it. We’re headed back now and should be in the city in ninety minutes. We can regroup then and decide where to go from here. In the meantime, do me a favor. Get the Virginia State Police to issue a BOLO for Rachel Calhoun’s car.”
“What reason should I give them?”
“Tell them it might have been stolen. Make sure they spread the word to local jurisdictions, too.”
“You’re the boss.”
Hunt disconnected, checked the speedometer and goosed the accelerator.
64
Anger and confusion duked it out in my head, still aching from Amir’s pistol-whipping, until I realized with dawning horror what I’d just done. I held the phone away from me as if it might explode, and scrambled out of the car. The phone was sticky with blood, which meant the head wound was bleeding again, and my fingers slipped on the phone’s slick surface as I tried to turn it off. I finally threw it onto the pavement as hard as I could, then stomped on it. Frantically, I got back in the car, fired up the engine, and rolled back and forth over the mangled phone a couple of times before getting out and tossing its electronic remains into a weedy ditch. I drove away as quickly as I dared, and held the bloodied dishtowel to my head.
Twenty minutes later, I pulled onto a side road, parked and went on a mental treasure hunt to see if I could retrieve Doug’s cell phone number from my scrambled memory. It wouldn’t come to me no matter how hard I wracked my brain, and I cursed. I drew a deep breath, closed my eyes and started over. I summoned a mental image of my kitchen, the old wall phone with the scratch pad on the counter below, and the sheet of emergency numbers taped to the wall above it. I focused in on the numbers, and there it was, clear as day. Opening my eyes, I dialed and waited for it to ring through.
“Where are you?” Doug answered. “No, don’t tell me. Are you okay?”
“As okay as I’m going to be after a day like today. I’m sorry about calling the house. I wasn’t thinking. Got knocked in the head earlier.”
“Is it serious?”
I heard genuine concern in Doug’s voice. “I don’t think so. Some butterfly strips should hold it until I can get it stitched up.”
“What happened?”
“We don’t have time for this, Doug. They’ll trace this call like you were afraid they’d do to the last one.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry. About a lot of things. Janice says al-Qadir really stole your identity.”
“I tried to tell you. Water under the bridge. Look, I know who he is and where he is.”
“How?” Doug’s voice was sharp.
“Trust me, it’s from a very reliable source. An old friend of mine. Al-Qadir’s in Washington, which means that’s where Preston is. Problem is I’m not sure where. Didn’t you tell me Preston wanted to go there? Entered some contest to win a trip?”
“Yes. Yes, that’s right! Hang on.” I heard excitement grow in his voice then muffled sounds as if he covered the phone with his hand. He came back on the line a second or two later. “FBI agent in the living room. Had to move. They let Preston talk to me online this afternoon. He said he was in D.C. I wasn’t sure. The National Archives, Dad. That’s where he wanted to go. Do you really think they’ll take him there?”
It made sense. “If you wanted to demoralize this country, what better place? Blow up our symbols of freedom?”
Doug groaned. “Oh, God. They’re going to send him in there wearing a bomb.”
The thought chilled me. “They’ll never get it past security. Doug, listen to me. They’re not going to kill Preston. If it’s the last thing I do, I’ll find that boy and get him back to you safe and sound. Do you hear me? All I needed was where to look. I’ll get him home, Doug. I promise.”
“Do you really think you can find him?”
“I’ll find him. And I’ll take care of that bastard who took him.”
“Don’t tell me that. I’m an officer of the court.”
My son, the attorney. I didn’t want to tell him what happened in Ruckersville, either, but he’d find out eventually.
“I have to tell you something else, though. Most of what you see on TV about me is bullshit. But by the time this is over I’m going to need a good lawyer. I won’t say more except that I’m on your side. I’m one of the good guys. Remember that. Call your sister. She’ll tell you what’s going on.”
I disconnected before he could ask anything else, started the car and headed straight for the law of the land—Washington, D.C.
65
A heavy shroud of weariness settled on Roberts. The drone of the engine, the wind rush and monotony of the road threatened to lull her into dreamland. She fought to keep her eyes open and glanced at Hunt to make sure his remained on the road ahead. He cracked the window and let some of the cold night air in. She shivered, but it seemed to revive him. He caught her looking at him.
“That was a nice catch back at the crime scene,” he said in a low voice. “About the knife.”
“Thanks.” She realized the admission probably cost him, so she added lamely, “My dad always said to look for the things that aren’t at a scene.”
“It was good work.”
Roberts was about to suggest they pull off the road for coffee when Hunt’s phone rang.
Machowski’s voice boomed in the confined space. “Boss, we got a hit on the woman’s car. Patrol cop in Arlington spotted it in a motel parking lot.”
“It’s still there?”
“Still there. Cop is sitting on it waiting for us to tell him what to do.”
“He doesn’t know if the driver rented a room there or not? Okay, have Arlington PD send another patrol car out to ask the night manager. If Rachel Calhoun actually loaned the car to a friend no harm done. But if our guy is there, have the manager get the room number and tell him to sit tight. Then call in SWAT. No sirens. We don’t want to spook this guy. I think Keator will surrender peacefully, but I’m not taking chances. We’re…” He glanced at Roberts, and she flashed the fingers on one hand three times. “…fifteen minutes away.”
&nb
sp; “Got it. By the way, Greene County Sheriff is none too happy with you issuing that BOLO without checking in first. Said he doesn’t appreciate being squeezed out like that. Sicced some sergeant named Marquette on your trail. He’s about ten minutes behind you.”
“Crap. Should have known better. Thanks for the heads-up. Give me the motel address.”
Machowski rattled off the street number and name, and Hunt repeated it aloud to make sure he had it.
“We’ll let you know when we’re on scene,” Hunt said.
Before he finished speaking, Roberts got on her phone and started typing. In a moment, she looked up.
“Take exit seventy-one,” she said. “Fairfax Drive. From there, it’s about a mile.”
“Let’s make it ten minutes.” He turned on the dashboard light bar and stepped on the gas.
They rode in silence until Roberts finally told him to make a right turn and guided him the last couple of blocks to the motel.
The V-shaped 1960s building sat on a corner, a two-story rectangle forming the right arm, and a larger, three-story block extending away from the street. Lighted windows at the end of the smaller structure marked the office. Hunt turned the corner and coasted down the block, surveying the rear parking lot. Another Arlington PD squad car parked at the curb facing them, lights doused and interior dark. They drove up the street until he found a place to park.
They both climbed out and shut their doors quietly. Roberts walked alongside him until they drew abreast of the patrol car, then she crossed the street where the cop would have plenty of time to note her approach. Several yards from the car, she held up her shield and the cop rolled down his window.
“Cavalry’s here,” she said softly. “You called it in?”
“My partner.” The officer gestured toward the motel. “He’s inside.”
“Any sign of our suspect?”
“Nah. Pretty quiet. Only people I’ve seen come or go since we got here was a thirty-something couple on the way out, and an older couple on the way in for the night.”
“Thanks.” Roberts peeled away from the car and hurried to catch up with Hunt.
“So, what’s up?” he said when she joined him.
“He’s been parked there ever since he called it in,” Roberts said. “Says the car hasn’t moved, obviously, but since he didn’t know what room Keator might be in, he doesn’t know if Keator’s here or not. Says it’s been quiet.”
They walked up to the office together. The other patrolman stood in front of the counter inside. He turned at the sound of the door opening and watched them enter. Fresh-faced and fit, he looked too young to be a cop. A thin, balding man wearing a sweater vest over a short-sleeved white dress shirt and skinny tie stood behind the counter. He stared at the agents from behind thick-lensed glasses.
“Help you?” the clerk said.
Roberts and Hunt held out their ID so both the night manager and the cop could see it.
“Special Agents Hunt and Roberts, FBI,” Hunt said. “What’s the situation?”
“Officer Bayne.” The cop extended a hand to Hunt first and then Roberts, and jerked a thumb toward the clerk. “This is Mr. Romero. Mr. Romero says he checked a man in about an hour ago who matches the description sent out with the BOLO on the car. Fella paid in cash, so Mr. Romero made sure to get the license plate number in case the guy did any damage to the room.”
“He didn’t look like the sort who would,” Romero interjected. “But he didn’t look too good, either. Had a cut on his head that had bled pretty bad. Scared me good when he first walked in. I wasn’t gonna rent him a room, but he’s an older guy. Looked beat. I said he looked like he’d been in a bar fight. He got all embarrassed and said he tripped getting in the car and hit his head on the corner of the door.” Romero shrugged. “Seemed plausible.”
“What room is he in?” Hunt said.
“Three-ten,” Romero said. “Third floor, on the end.”
Hunt turned to the officer. “We’re going to have a look at the layout, then we’ll be back. Sit tight.”
“Sure. What’d this guy do, anyway?”
“Don’t you listen to the news?”
Recognition slowly dawned on his face. “The guy they’ve been chasing cross-country?”
Hunt turned for the door and Roberts followed him out. They walked around the corner of the building. Hunt stopped and turned his face up at the taller building across the parking lot. Roberts scanned the walkways in front of the doors on each floor, taking note of what he might be looking at. When she reached the third floor, she moved her gaze to the unit on the end. Light glowed from behind the closed curtains. She scrutinized the walkway in the other direction. About five rooms down, a staircase descended to street level. The two buildings connected at the far end, but a guest could get from one to the other inside only on the lower two floors. She thought about why Keator would dead-end himself that way and leave no escape route.
“Third floor, room on the end,” he said. “What do you see?”
“He could be there; might not be. Only one way in or out, so he knows if someone’s coming. Conversely, nowhere to go if someone does come calling.”
He grunted and started walking back to the office.
She caught up quickly. “How do you want to play this?”
“Quietly and with a minimum of fuss. No shock and awe this time.”
A large SUV in Arlington Police colors pulled into the lot and parked in front as they approached the office. An officer in combat gear climbed out of the front passenger door.
“Hunt and Roberts, FBI,” Hunt said.
“Lieutenant Farquhar. You called?”
“Let’s go inside,” Hunt said.
Farquhar turned and motioned toward the SUV, signaling the occupants, and accompanied the agents into the small motel lobby.
“Here’s the deal,” Hunt said. “Suspect’s name is Zane Keator. We raided his home in Michigan early this morning looking for someone that turned out not to be him. He’s been on the run ever since. At this point, we just want to talk to him, but he’s committed several crimes, including attacks on two LEOs. So we have to consider him armed and dangerous. I’d like to do this as quietly and as peacefully as possible. We’ll give him a chance to surrender first. If he refuses…well, that’s why you’re here, Lieutenant.”
“Where is he?” Farquhar said.
“Third floor end,” Romero chimed in from behind the counter.
“Only one way in or out,” Hunt said.
Farquhar looked at him. “What are you thinking?”
“Post two of your men on the walkway outside the room next door, and two in the parking lot below. Let me and Roberts go knock on his door and see what happens.” He turned to Roberts. “That sound right? You don’t have to put yourself in the line of fire.”
“I don’t have a problem with it,” she said.
“If he’s non-threatening, but won’t open the door, we’ll use a pass key. Mr. Romero?”
Romero shrugged. “As long as you don’t shoot the place up, I’m fine.”
“If he refuses to come out, we can use a ram and a flash-bang.”
Farquhar nodded. “We need to clear civilians out.”
Hunt shook his head. “You evacuate the motel, he’ll know something’s up.”
“At least the room next to his,” Farquhar said. “I don’t want people killed by stray bullets through the walls.”
Hunt turned to Romero again. “Anyone in that room?”
Romero shook his head as he checked his register. “It’s empty.”
“Fine,” Hunt said. “That makes things even simpler.”
“A suggestion,” Farquhar said. “If I remember, there’s a walkway through to the next street over behind the motel back there. Let’s put Officer Bayne on the street behind just in case this guy manages to slip through.”
“Okay by me,” Hunt said. “Bayne?”
“No problem, sir,” Bayne said.
“Gi
ve me two minutes to brief my men,” Farquhar said, “and we’ll move out.”
As he led the way out, a Greene County Sheriff’s car drove into the lot. Roberts was glad all the law enforcement vehicles were on this side of the motel, out of sight of the room that Keator had rented. She glanced at Hunt nervously, but he appeared calm. Didn’t look like the alpha dogs would get into a fight. Marquette climbed out and stretched then headed straight for Hunt.
“Bad form, Agent,” he said, a frown darkening his broad face.
Hunt shrugged. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”
“I would’ve gotten to it,” Marquette said. “To show you what good sportsmanship is, I’ll give you five minutes with this guy—if it’s him—before I take him back with me. I’ve got a dead guy he has to answer for.”
“I’d prefer ten,” Hunt said, “but I suppose that’s fair.”
“Let’s just get him out alive first, boys,” Roberts said.
Farquhar strode over from the SWAT SUV where he’d been briefing the three other members of his team. He introduced himself to Marquette and turned to Hunt.
“We’re ready to go if you are.”
Five minutes later, Roberts and stood outside room 310. She stood in a ready stance, pistol held in a two-handed grip pointed down at the walkway in front of her. Hunt had his hand poised to knock. She checked to see that the two pairs of SWAT officers were in place and nodded.
Hunt rapped on the door.
66
I got off the highway outside Washington, and found an all-night pharmacy. I needed to crash for a few hours, but wanted to attend to first aid before I did. I cruised the aisles with a basket, picking supplies—bandages, ibuprofen, tape, antiseptic, peroxide and a dark Georgetown hooded sweatshirt in case I couldn’t get the blood out of the windbreaker. My appearance at that hour raised no alarms, but did elicit an inquisitive stare from the clerk at the register. One look at the supplies on the counter, though, assured him that I’d probably dealt with wounds before, and that I probably wasn’t indigent. A rack near the counter displayed all kinds of hats. I picked a baseball cap embroidered with the politically incorrect logo of the local football team and added it to the pile the clerk rang up. I asked him where to find a decent motel, and he gave me directions to a place a few blocks away.
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